


Three is Good Company

by TimeTravellingDinosaur



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Communication, Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Multi, Naked Female Clothed Male, Nonverbal Communication, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Reader-Insert, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 11:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeTravellingDinosaur/pseuds/TimeTravellingDinosaur
Summary: You, the reader, meet a lovely gay couple living in London, a bookshop owner called Aziraphale and his husband Crowley. You don't realise at first how interested they are in you, and how they'd like you to join their relationship for awhile, but they want it to be your choice. They are, however, competing with each other to see who can seduce you first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is my first ever work of fan-fiction, basically an excuse for me to write out my fantasies with the most gorgeous ineffable husbands. I've been reading lots of other people's works so THANK YOU for giving me the courage to put this up. Not betaed, not proofed, so could be a bit dodgy with grammar and spelling, etc.

#### Chapter 1

There's no way you would have been able to afford to live in central London, but your uncle died and left you his flat, along with all the possessions in it. Unfortunately the possessions are many, and you spend much of your spare time sifting through old boxes and suitcases of books, records and other paraphernalia. Not that you mind, really. You find it rather satisfying to sort and decide which pieces to bin, donate, or on occasion, sell.

The books, in particular, seem to be of good quality and excellent condition. You ring around a few places before you find a shop in Soho that buys rare and valuable books, and after the conversation with the owner (an extremely polite and very well-spoken gentlemen) you pack up several of the most impressive looking volumes and catch a bus (thank goodness it's not peak hour) over that way then walk the rest of the way.

Mr. A. Z. Fell, the proprietor, flips the open sign to closed as soon as you walk in. You feel a pang of guilt. I hope you didn't open up just for me, you say. It is Saturday, after all, and you couldn't find the opening hours of the shop on the internet. In fact you couldn't find a website at all; just a reference on another site about the store.

Mr. Fell is peering excitedly at the volumes you have brought. But, my dear, these are marvellous! Oh and this is a signed copy! Yes, I will most certainly purchase these from you.

You smile. Normally you’d arc up at some middle-aged white dude calling you my dear, but Mr. Fell beams at you and his enthusiasm and warmth simply make you feel appreciated. I’m really glad they’ll find a good home—what did you think you wanted to pay for them? He names a figure that you find exceedingly generous. As you mouth drops open in astonishment you hear the shop doorbell tinkle. You turn, surprised that someone would barge in when the sign clearly says closed. Angel, did you decide you wanted sushi tonight or the Ritz? ‘Cause I’m easy, and—oh, didn’t realise you had a customer. The red-haired man who had addressed Mr. Fell as angel was as opposite of the kindly bookshop owner as could be. Lean, dressed in tight black jeans and a black button-up shirt, he wears sunglasses despite the dim lighting in the shop, and oozes a kind of insouciance that borders on the insolent.

Oh, the young lady isn’t a customer, Crowley. Mr. Fell lights up. Standing between the two of them you could have cut the attraction in the air with a knife. I’m buying a number of books from her. Forget a knife—a rusty spoon would have carved the atmosphere it is that thick. It is rather beautiful, the way Mr. Fell gazes lovingly upon the dramatically dressed visitor. Not that, you realise with an odd twinge, that Mr. Fell’s attire is any less dramatic, not really. Old-fashioned embroidered waistcoat under cream topcoat, cute tartan bowtie and smartly pressed pants. The pieces click together and you realise he must be dressed for a date with this man Crowley, and he really has just opened up the shop for you to bring your books in.

I won’t keep you, you blurt. That amount is just fine—thank you so much. Crowley sidles closer—wow, those pants really are tight—and peers over your shoulder. You can smell his cologne. You haven’t dated men for a while (you find women more straightforward), and he’s a bit older than you’d normally go for, but if he wasn’t clearly in a relationship you’d be tempted to give it a shot and see if he was interested. Maybe it’s just the tension evident between him and the kindly Mr. Fell who is pressing bank notes into your hand.

Thank you, my dear—please do call if you find any more like this. Oh, there’s loads, you blurt, distracted by the proximity of Mr. Crowley. The delighted smile on Mr. Fell’s face elicits a goofy smile from you in return—gosh, he is just so lovely, you think. Such a sweet man. I just wasn’t sure if you’d be interested, you go on. And I could only carry so much on the bus.

Oh, you must, ring me next time, and I’ll ask Crowley here if he can come pick them up. Mr. Fell turns a beseeching smile on Mr. Crowley, and—dark and suave as he is—he shrugs tolerantly and says,

Anything for you, Angel. Gosh, how sweet, you think. I’ll go through them and ring you tomorrow, if you’re open, you say. Or tell me when is best. I work in the week, is the only thing.

Tomorrow is just perfect, my dear. I shall be delighted to hear from you. Mr. Fell beams again and clasps your hand in both of his, filling you with warm fuzzy affection. How silly, you chide yourself as you venture out into the Soho streets. You just met them and you find Crowley hot and Mr. Fell so sweet you’re all giddy. It’s really quite bizarre.

Sunday is spent tackling your late uncle’s study. You manage to decant the shelves into several boxes, writing a list of the books on a sheet of paper so that when you call Mr. Fell in the afternoon you are able to read out what ones you have.

He barely lets you start the list before interrupting, Yes, yes, bring them all, please! May I send Crowley to collect you? He has a car.

Part of you dances with joy at the prospect of making some more money—you’re saving to go overseas—but an even bigger part dances at the thought of spending more time in the presence of Crowley, which is ridiculous, you know, but you can’t help it. You give the address of your flat, then rush into the shower to clean up all the dust that coats you from sorting through the study.

You’ve barely stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rings. Wrapping a towel frantically around your still wet body, you lean out of the bathroom door and shout, Just a minute!

Ah, yeah, you’re the girl with the books? Aziraphale sent me to pick you up.

Jesus, that was fast, you think. I’ll just be a minute! and you duck back into the bathroom, shutting the door and towelling yourself frantically. Jeans and a top later, you step out to find Mr. Crowley leaning on the inside of your front door.

Boxes by the door? They’re in the Bentley. You ready? He looks bored, hands just tucked into jeans’ pocket, hip thrust forward in a way that draws the eye then makes you blush. You splutter a question about how the hell he got in, and the bored expression gives way to a devious smile. You really should lock your door. Any old devil could walk in. The smile and tone does strange things to your stomach, and you order yourself to behave. He’s clearly in a relationship, and besides, you don’t like arrogant men.

He’s a perfect gentleman, though, on the car ride over, engaging you in polite chat about how long you’d lived in London, eliciting details about how you were the only one in the family who got along with your gay uncle, and in return he’d given you the confidence to come out as queer too. He sounds like fun, Crowley says as you pull up to the bookshop. You’re astonished he manages to find a park right outside, but don’t complain as you lift heavy boxes from the boot (it really is a Bentley, and old-school one, and in excellent condition, though you know precious little about cars).

Mr. Fell flutters with excitement (he really is too cute) as he leads you through to a room at the back. If there are any you don’t want, I can donate them, you offer.

Oh no, my dear, I’m sure I’ll find a home for them. He appears to be going into rhapsodies of delight as he opens one box and practically squeals in excitement. You hide a smile behind your hand. You’re happy this lovely person is so delighted by something you’ve brought about.

Drink? Crowley asks from right behind you, making you jump. Jesus, he moves quietly!

Oh, yes, how rude of me! Mr. Fell—or what did Crowley call him? Aziraphale?—declares. Would you like tea?

Crowley makes a rude noise. Tea? Come on, angel, you’re obviously in paroxysms of delight—that calls for a celebration. Besides, if we have to watch you gush over every book we need something to fortify us. He wanders over to an elegant wooden cabinet and pulls out a bottle of scotch. You raise your eyebrows as he collects glasses from the kitchenette visible through a side door and pours three drinks. Unless you prefer something else, he says, hesitating before he hands you the glass. Or nothing. The words seem to pain him, but you really appreciate him giving the option to not drink.

No, this is wonderful, you smile, and he visibly relaxes and gives a wink as he toasts you and Aziraphale.

The scotch is amazing, nicer than anything you could afford, though with the money from the books you’d be tempted to splash out and treat yourself. Crowley slings an arm around your shoulders and leads you to a squishy old couch. He starts telling you of how obsessed Aziraphale is with old books and how he hates actually selling any of them. You laugh at some of the stories of the lengths gone to in order to distract, discourage or even chase away persistent customers. Aziraphale occasionally lifts his head to give a tolerant, loving smile at Crowley before diving back into the boxes. You glance at your phone and realise it’s past dinnertime.

Oh, I really should go! Pity—you were really enjoying yourself. Crowley is hilarious and obviously adores his angel, and the scotch is very good. You stand up and sway. Geez, I shouldn’t drink so much on an empty stomach. I’m sorry.

Please don’t apologise, my dear—it is us who have kept you. It’s lovely of you to keep Crowley company while I sort these books. You must be famished!

UberEats! Crowley declares, leaping up and yanking out his phone. Who wants sushi? Shall we get sushi?

Despite your protests, they insist on ordering sushi for all of you. Aziraphale pops payment for the books into an envelope for you, so when the delivery guy appears with the sushi, you slip in front and pay. Aziraphale looks crestfallen, But you are our guest!

You smile, I’m drinking your booze, and you’ve just bought a heap of books from me that cost me nothing. It’s the least I can do. You like maintaining a sense of equality with people—it’s just how you roll. You pat Aziraphale’s hand (drinking makes you more affectionate, and he really is such a sweetie). Crowley looks wryly amused, and gives a respectful nod before disappearing into the kitchenette for a bottle of wine and more glasses. Just one, you insist. I’ve got work tomorrow.

One turns into two, then three, though you certainly aren’t keeping pace with your two companions. You wonder idly if they are married, or just dating. They are such a lovely couple; Crowley pretending to be all cynical and sharp while shooting adoring looks at his partner, Aziraphale full of ‘darlings’, though you are the recipient of several knee pats as he leans forward from his stuffed armchair to make a certain point. They have you laughing and sharing stories, Crowley nudges you cheerily with his elbow then returns his arm to the back of the couch behind you, you get bolder with rejoinders and teasing. It’s fun; you are comfortable and happy.

At some point, nature calls, and you ask if you may use the bathroom. Aziraphale looks panicked for a second, but Crowley snaps his fingers and then points. Up the stairs, on the left. Or right. One of those. He’s pretty drunk, which makes you giggle.

As you come back down the stairs, you prepare your ‘thanks for having me’ speech (alright, you’re pretty drunk too—work is going to be hell tomorrow). You pause on the bottom step, just out of sight, when you hear Crowley declare, I like her! She’s fun.

She’s got lovely manners, Aziraphale responds cheerfully. And she brought me all those books.

Pfft, you and your books. You can hear the affectionate eye-roll in his voice. Nah, I reckon we should invite her again. Been awhile since we’ve had anyone around on a regular basis.

Naw, that’s sweet, you think. The next comment from Aziraphale confuses you a little though, Put your glasses back on, Crowley. You don’t want to frighten her off then.

You had noticed he kept his glasses on. Deciding at first it was a bit of a wanky affectation, this comment shames you. Obviously Crowley has some sort of eye condition. Liquid courage has you marching into the room (you don’t want them to think you were standing there eavesdropping… which you were, but that’s not the point) and stating, He doesn’t frighten me, don’t feel you have to wear your glasses if you don’t want to. You blink hard as you look at Crowley—he whips his glasses back on. Wow, you really must be drunk, you could have sworn his eyes were yellow. Maybe they were amber and it’s just the light in the room.

He stares at you a minute, then grins wolfishly. Maybe another day. He glances at Aziraphale slyly. Be nice to have someone around who doesn’t scare easily. Aziraphale gives him a warning look.

Feeling as though you’ve passed some sort of test, you smile triumphantly, then try to remember what you were originally going to say. Home! I’ve got to go home, you declare.

I’ll drive you, Crowley says, leaping up.

No way! you exclaim. You’ve had way too much to drink.

Nah, I can sober up in three seconds.

Crowley! Aziraphale interrupts warningly.

You giggle and advance on Crowley. You’ve had waaaay too much. You prod his chest playfully. I’ll catch an Uber.

He stares at you intensely from behind those dark glasses, and you’re breathless for a second. Then he snatches your hand, still lingering near his chest, and kisses the back of it. You blink in astonishment. The atmosphere is charged and you have no idea why. Aziraphale clears his throat, and breaks the tension. You blush with mortification and fumble for your phone, calling an Uber.

Do come visit again, my dear, Aziraphale seems not to be offended that you kind of had a moment with his boyfriend (husband?). Come for afternoon tea—the bakery down the road does a heavenly cheesecake.

Just don’t try to buy any books, Crowley murmurs conspiratorially, grinning. You laugh and the atmosphere returns to normal. When your ride arrives, you wave through the window as they stand at the front door of the bookshop; Aziraphale’s posture all prim but he wears a cheery smile as he raises just a hand to wave, Crowley languid against the doorframe, a casual nod as you drive out of sight.

What a nice couple, you think, yawning. You would like to visit them again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You think it's an innocent friendship. What's on their minds is far from innocent, but once you realise, you might just be down for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think Aziraphale would try to seduce someone with dessert. Crowley would definitely do it with alcohol. There is a little bit of smut (heehee) as a warm up for next chapter.

#### Chapter 2

So you do. Well, you see Aziraphale during the week—you managed to skip off work early and decided to pop in. He seems genuinely delighted to see you and insists on closing the shop so you can both walk down to the bakery with the ‘heavenly’ cheesecake, then back again for him to serve Earl Grey in beautiful antique china. You discuss books, your job, and places you’d like to visit. He is quite well-travelled, and extolls the virtues of many places he insists you must visit.

It’s a very pleasant afternoon, and you catch the bus home with a sense of extreme contentedness.

The end of the week comes and you are dragged out by your co-workers for Friday drinks. Not really your scene—you prefer a small gathering over a noisy pub, but you haven’t been at this office long, and figure you should make an effort to be sociable.

Brad, one of the guys from Marketing, quickly proves to you why being sociable might not be a great idea. He talks too loudly, stands too close and insists on buying you a drink even after you clearly say no thank you. Sweet white wine? That’s what you chicks drink, ain’t it? Or something with a bit o’ zest? He leers, and you sigh.

No thanks, Brad. I’ll get myself a drink a bit later maybe. You excuse yourself to the loo and wonder if you should just Houdini out of there. They want to kick on to another pub where a live band is playing, and you aren’t inclined to waste the money on the cover charge. On your way back from the toilets you detour past some booths, looking to see if there is a side exit. A man sitting by himself catches your eye. He’s all in black, which isn’t astonishing in itself, it’s more than he has a booth to himself and no one is pressuring him to share as the place gets increasingly crowded.

He’s also got short red hair and is wearing sunglasses. Crowley? you ask.

He glances up and grins. Why, hello. What are you doing in a dive like this? Siddown—have a drink. He has a bottle of whiskey on the table with a single glass—you didn’t think bars were allowed to serve spirits by the bottle. You glance up and see Brad waving and pointing to a large glass of white wine, trying to get your attention. Hard pass, you think.

Could ask you the same thing. You slide onto the seat next to him. Are you meeting Aziraphale here?

Nah, not his scene. Sometimes I just like to get out by myself. Here, he snaps his fingers at a passing barmaid carrying a tray of drinks, clean glass for my friend. The barmaid frowns and looks as if she is going to tell him to get stuffed, but the words that come out of her mouth are,

Sure thing, and she places down a short glass from her tray then continues on to another booth.

You raise your eyebrows. Thank you, you say as he pours a generous drink. You fill him in on the work situation, and how you’re avoiding the sleazy Brad, then together you start people watching, sharing funny observations about other patrons. The fire of attraction is still there, but you tamp it down and just enjoy his company. Then Brad appears, sloshing the glass of wine onto the table. I got you a drink, he said, slightly accusingly.

You grit your teeth as you smile falsely. I said no thanks, remember. The sulphites in white give me a headache.

He lingers, flicking his eyes over Crowley, who lolls casually, one arm stretched behind you on the top of the booth seat. Are you coming back to join us? Brad asks. We’re gonna leave to go see that band soon.

Ah, I’m good thanks. You smile brightly. Just ran into a friend and thought I’d catch up. You guys go on without me.

Brad nods, then smiles and leans down to peck your cheek. See you later then, then adds, in an undertone, you know he’s queer.

You shrug and continue smiling. So am I.

Brad rears back, astonished, then looks from you to Crowley, who smirks. You heave a big sigh of relief when your annoying co-worker departs, and down your drink. I’m not having a late night, I’m gonna head, you say.

Yeah, me too. Crowley slides out from the booth after you and follows you out. Lift?

You shoot him a sharp look, then remember there had been a fair amount of whiskey left in the bottle. It’s fine, thanks though.

Oh, look, there’s your friend again. Crowley points at a group gathered on the footpath outside the pub. Bradley is there, and he’s spotted you.

You groan. Where are you parked? He smirks and throws an arm over your shoulder and leads you around the corner, where the Bentley is silent under a broken street light. Crowley pauses but you step towards the passenger door. Lost your keys? you ask teasingly when he doesn’t move.

Suddenly the crackling tension is back as he step towards you, backing you against the car. What the hell is he playing at? you think angrily, perplexed and frustrated that he should tempt you with something you can’t have. He’s so close, he smells of scotch and woodsmoke and why is he looking down at your face so intently? You grab his lapels, intending to shove him away, but instead you drag him in for a furious, intense kiss. Heat frissons in your stomach, and lower, and all you want to do is grind against him, but the feel of his lips pulling into a smile mortifies you and you stop.

Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Your face is burning. You press back into the car—you would phase right through the metal if you could, except suddenly naughty images of what Crowley could do to you in the car pop into your head and you cover your face with you hand.

The heat that is Crowley moves away, and you hear him open the driver’s door. Go on, get in. He sounds completely unfazed, like women throwing themselves at him is something he’s used to. Who knows, maybe it is, but the point is you know he’s with Aziraphale, and you aren’t going to encourage him to cheat.

The drive to your flat is silent but for the soft vocals of Freddie Mercury. Crowley has a smirk on his face, and you avoid looking at it when you thank him for the lift and scramble out of the car.

The next day you feel sick with guilt. You run your errands in the morning, but mid-afternoon finds you standing outside Aziraphale’s bookstore in Soho.

When you finally muster the courage to go in, there is no one in sight. You really hope Crowley isn’t about—this is going to be embarrassing enough as it is, getting it off your chest.

Aziraphale pops his head out from behind a bookshelf. Oh, hello, my dear! How lovely to see you! Would you like some tea? He eagerly flips the sign on the door from open to closed and turns the key in the lock.

Um, I have to tell you something, you confess.

Certainly, my dear. Why don’t you do it over a pot of Earl Grey? I have some scrumptious berry tarts we can share—I might even have fresh cream to go with them.

Your mouth waters at the prospect, then you miserably tell yourself you don’t deserve this man’s kindness. He bustles about in the kitchenette, insisting you sit on the couch while he prepares a tray. Now, he says, setting the tea service down on the coffee table and pouring for your both,

what is you have to tell me? Actually, do try the tart first. He presses a small plate with cream-covered tart into your hands. You rest it on your lap as he perches next to you.

I, uh, ran into Crowley at a pub last night, you say. God, you really didn’t want to cause trouble between these two, but you needed to fess up that it was all you, and not Crowley.

Oh, yes, he did say. Aziraphale smiles and forks up a portion of the tart. Here, try this and tell me what you think. You have no choice but to open your mouth and accept the delicious dessert, making a small noise of appreciation.

It’s delicious, you manage. Why must he sit so close? Will he throw boiling hot tea on you when you confess what you have done?

Oops! Spot of cream on your mouth. Aziraphale flicks a finger forward and wipes a smidgen of cream from your lips. He sucks if off his finger and you stare in consternation.

Um, you say, distracted, then you refocus and decide to get it all out in a rush. Anyway, he offered me a lift, but as he got to the car, I, um, well, I kinda kissed him. I’m so sorry—I really didn’t mean to and I really don’t want to cause drama between you two because you’re such a lovely couple and I really like hanging out with you and I really didn’t mean to ruin it all. You stare at the plate in your lap, miserable and tense.

Oh my dear girl, Aziraphale covers your hand with his own. I know, Crowley told me. He sounded very smug about it too.

Huh? You don’t understand.

My dear, Crowley and I have been together a very, very long time now. He smiles fondly. Sometimes we see other people, and that’s perfectly alright.

Your eyes widen and you mouth drops open. Aziraphale squeezes your hand and leans forward, whispering conspiratorially. Sometimes we see the same other people. He winks.

Your jaw drops further. Is he hitting on you? First, that their relationship is polyamorous is unexpected, but you really respect any couple who can maintain respect and open communication for such a sustain period of time. But Aziraphale? He’s so sweet, so affectionate… He brushes your cheek with a gentle hand, Of course, my dear, if you’re not interested, please simply say, and I hope I haven’t made you too uncomfortable.

No, you blurt. His mouth makes a little moue of pleasure and his eyes crinkle, then he cocks an eyebrow with an inviting cheekiness that you flush and tingle all over. Deciding to try something, you take up a forkful of tart and cream from the plate in your lap and offer it to him. He accepts it and closes his eyes in delight, making a tiny moan of delight that sets you on fire. If that’s what he sounds like eating dessert, what noises must he make with… other activities?

You set the plate aside on the coffee table, but not before dipping your finger in the cream and holding it up. Aziraphale takes your hand and sucks the cream off with an eager hum. He then kisses your palm, your wrist, dragging your top over your head to continue feathering kisses up your arm onto your neck, your jaw, then down your décolletage to the tops of your breasts. You whimper, and

Aziraphale murmurs, You really are delectable, my dear. You suddenly suspect that he’d be delighted to pour cream all over you in order to patiently lap it off, and the thought brings hot wetness into your underwear. You wriggle in desperation, wanting him to go faster—he hasn’t even kissed your mouth yet!

Mmm, just delectable, he repeats, and continues his slow exploration down your stomach to the waistband of your jeans.

Please, you gasp.

Hmm? He sits up, an extremely smug look on his face. Yes, my dear.

Oh god, don’t stop! Please! Stopping is the last thing you want. 

He swoops in to capture your mouth with his, pushing you back onto the couch. My god, he tastes of sunshine and champagne and fairy bread. His kiss is gentle but lingering. He unbuttons your jeans, then slides to the floor to pull off your boots and then your jeans and kisses back up your to your thighs. An embarrassing, high-pitched squeak emerges from your throat and tears squeeze from your eyes as he nuzzles his way up to your crotch and uses his teeth to draw down the last remaining fabric between you and the rising urge to moan uncontrollably.

The drag of your underwear over your clitoris makes you groan, you’re so aroused already. Aziraphales tongue laps tentatively, then with increasing confidence as your hips begin to thrust of their own volition. He draws circles around your clit, the teases down between your labia to your hole, working you into a right state. One hand creeps up, pushing under the fabric of your bra to stroke, then strum first one nipple, then the other, while his other hand keeps you pressed down so he can lick, lave and thrust his tongue into you. Your moans grow increasingly reckless and uncaring, until blinding ecstasy screams into your brain and you arch back, pushing yourself into Aziraphale’s eager mouth while he makes the most satisfied hum, gripping your hips with both hands and holding you there until your body shudders back down to reality.

You lie there, eyes closed, enjoyed your blissed out state, feeling Aziraphale return your underwear to its customary place and straightening your bra. You blink at him—my god, he looks like the cat that got the canary, all chuffed with himself.

Did that just happen? you ask. Never in a thousand years would you have believed that the prim, proper bookshop owner would have been capable of seducing you.

He chuckles and lifts your chin to place a gentle kiss on your mouth. It most certainly did, and I only hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I did. You are so lovely, my dear—every sound you make, well, he blushes a little pink, it’s better than a heavenly chorus.

What an odd analogy, you think, but you feel too good to do anything but grin stupidly and recline there.

Oh, the tea’s gone cold—let me brew a fresh pot. He bustles into the kitchenette, humming happily. When he comes back and hands you a delicate china cup, filled to the brim with hot tea, you sit up and smile.

You’re an angel, you say. He freezes, then laughs nervously, busying himself with his own tea. What did I say? you wonder.

Somehow, sitting in your underwear, drinking tea with this beautiful man feels perfectly normal. You even finish the berry tart, wondering if sweet pastry and cream will always remind you of this afternoon. After you dress, Aziraphale bids you farewell with an affectionate kiss on the lips and you sleep better that night than you have in years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know they are interested now, and you are too. But the way Crowley seduces is verrrry different to the way Aziraphale seduces...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, it's just smut now :P

Waking in the morning, you wonder if it was all a dream. Then you feel your shoulder as you put your bra on—there’s a slight friction burn from Aziraphale’s couch—and you smile to yourself.

You catch the train out to visit your parents for Sunday lunch. Your mother frets that you haven’t found a man and your dad gets into an argument with you about marriage equality. He never coped with the fact that your uncle was gay, and you get exhausted by constantly having to justify your queerness. By the time you return home, however, you are fired up at the thought of all those snappy comebacks you should have made, annoyed at yourself for always thinking of the most brilliant responses well after the fact.

Evening has fallen, but you aren’t hungry—your mum always puts on too much food. Strolling out of the Tube station you stop at the sight of a vintage black Bentley with a lean, languid figure in black lounging casually against the bonnet. Want to take a spin? Crowley asks, eyebrow cocked above those ever-present sunglasses, mouth twisted in a sardonic smirk.

Your heart catches in your chest and you’re feeling bold. Sure, you say. He grins dangerously and opens the passenger door for you. Queen blares so you don’t talk as he cruises the London streets. Suddenly he pulls over outside a flash-looking apartment building.

Want to… come in? Or should I drop you back home? The air crackles and you feel like you’re playing with fire. Did Aziraphale tell him what happened? Was he following up on the kiss from Friday night? All you know is that he’s giving you the option to leave now—what happens once you step inside those doors is unpredictable and feels dangerous, but you have a need to know.

I’d love to, you say, staring right at his sunglass lenses. Will you see what’s beneath them? Is it really so disturbing.

He grins again, more widely and with teeth. Is it a trick of the light they look sharp? Trepidation fills you as you ride the lift up to his floor—the top one—though he hasn’t even touched you yet. He gives a little bow as he opens the apartment’s front door. After you, he gestures, smile back to wolfish.

The apartment is stark. Very modern and very Spartan; greys, blacks and dramatic whites, though you spot a tartan teatowel folded neatly on the kitchen bench. Drink? Crowley offers after shucking his jacket and unbuttoning his cuffs. He rolls the sleeves back and saunters to a glass cabinet under a massive TV.

Sure, you respond, trying to sound casual but feeling anything but. If Aziraphale’s seduction was soft and unexpected, Crowley’s you are hanging out for, and you hope like hell you aren’t wrong.

Fortunately excellent scotch give you something to focus on, though you sip it too fast after clinking glasses with Crowley. He knocks back his and sets the glass down, then puts his hand on your glass but doesn’t take it. You refuse to relinquish it anyway, but can’t help but step backwards as he advances. Suddenly a wall is at your back and he’s close, ever so close, but not touching except for his fingertips brushing yours on the scotch glass.

Now, what were you expecting, coming in here tonight? he breathes, cocking his head. Came to finish what you started the other night, hmm?

You take another sip of scotch to avoid answering. He pries it gently from your fingers and sets it down on a side table you could have sworn wasn’t there a second ago.

Well? he queries softly. What is it you want?

You swallow. You, you whisper.

His grin broadens. Good. He kisses you, hard and fast, pressing his whole body against your—Jesus, those pants really are tight; you can feel his erection straining against your stomach. His mouth is fierce on yours and captures his wrists in his hands, pinning them above your head against the wall. No gentle neck kissing for Crowley—his tongue delves in your mouth and it’s all you can do to keep breathing.

You won’t be made subordinate though. Working one hand free, you run it through his fiery hair, revelling in the sensation, then stop at his glasses, gripping the frames gently. He halts his assault on your mouth and freezes, but does nothing to stop you.

You draw the sunglasses away from his face and set them next to your scotch glass. Crowley’s eyes are tightly shut, but when he opens them it’s your turn to freeze.

They are snake’s eyes; burning yellow with vertical pupils, intent on you. Suddenly you realise that whatever you have gotten yourself into, it is no ordinary thing.

Sssscared? Crowley asks. He really does have sharp teeth, but you are less focussed on that than the forked tongue that flicks out as if to taste for your fear. You are, but refuse to be cowed. You stand stock still as he steps back and unbuttons his shirt, revealing a chest of sharp lines and flat planes. His yellow eyes never leave yours, and you swallow.

What are you? you whisper.

His smile gets even toothier, if that is possible. Zira said you called him an angel. He really is. The last button releases and his shirt drops to the ground. But me… I’m the opposite.

A string of thoughts dash through your mind. Crowley calling Aziraphale ‘angel’ (a pet name, surely!) Aziraphale saying you sounded better than a heavenly chorus. You calling him an angel and him reacting so strangely. And Crowley’s eyes… and teeth… and tongue… of a snake. Of a…

No just thing as demons, you choke out. He’s crazy. He looks crazy. Eyes lit with an unholy fire. You chide yourself for the melodramatic phrasing.

He cocks his head to the side and you hear a rustle of… feathers? Black wings unfurl from behind Crowley’s back, dark as the space between stars yet with a sheen that hints at the light of a cold and distant sun. Wings of a fallen angel. Wings of a demon.

You panic and break, but before you manage even one step he is on you, snatching your wrists again and kissing like a fiend. You struggle—nothing good ever happens in the movies to women who have sex with supernatural entities, no matter how much his kisses leave your knees feeling weak. You have enough sense of self-preservation to want to get the hell away.

He throws your arms around his neck and hoists your legs around his waist in one swift movement. You dig your fingers into the soft feathers at the top of his spine, ready to pull, scratch, yank—do whatever it takes to fight your way free—and Crowley moans and stumbles. He catches himself (and you) by throwing his hand out and bracing himself against the wall. He stares into your eyes.

That… did not sound like a moan of pain, you think, and give another dig. He groans and kisses you again, need clearly evident as he presses you against the wall. Holy shit, this is turning him on. You press your fingers down his back, as far as you reach, and he moans again, planting kisses down your jaw and onto your neck, nipping and resting his teeth on your skin, breathing hard. You try dragging your fingers outwards, still knowing you should run, but taunted by the prospect of what might happen next.

Touching more of his wings is a trigger. Crowley growls and rips, literally rips, at your clothes. Any human who tried that would end up with a fistful of fabric and maybe a few popped buttons, and much tangled undressing would still be required. When Crowley does it, your blouse simply gives up and tears into pieces. Bra, skirt and tights follow; your boots—where did they go? They are simple gone. How the hell did that happen? Underwear is the only thing left and it will make a pretty poor defense between you and an extremely aroused demon, who has abandoned the living room and carried you into a starkly furnished bedroom, dumping you on the bed and standing back. He is breathing hard, wings quivering, and his erection very clearly straining against his jeans.

What the hell have you got yourself into?

He seems to regain some composure as he runs his eyes over your almost naked form. You cross your arms over your breasts. He tuts. No point hiding now, he said, a laviscious grin crossing his face. He leans down and kisses you deeply, but doesn’t try to unfold your arms, much to your surprise. You… almost wanted him to. You don’t know what you want right now—you’re so full of adrenaline that you don’t know if you want to run or fight or fuck… though it’s leaning very quickly towards the latter, particularly as Crowley straightens up and begins to unbutton his fly.

He’s fucking magnificent, and you’re not just talking about the decently sized cock that springs free as he divests himself of his remaining clothing. His eyes, his beautiful skin, those wings… You drink in the sight of him. He is unearthly. He is terrifying. But he is fixated on you, and if this is the way you are going to go, you might as well do it on your own terms.

You sit up, then slide of the bed onto your knees, right in front of him. Does he think you’re going to beg? You can’t read those remarkable eyes, but the black wingtips curve around to stroke your back and you shudder with want. You trail your fingertips up his thighs and lean forward to taste the end of his cock. His hands clench into fists and the feathers touching your back tremble. You dip forward again, swirling your tongue over the head, then giving the underside a slow, long lick before taking the head in your mouth.

Crowley gives a low, pleasured rumble as you slowly take him in further. You bob forward then retreat, tonguing the slit at the tip as you grip his base hard with your hand, then encasing as much of his length in your mouth as you can. When you reach up his arse to rake your nails through the downy softness trailing down from his wings, he jerks forward in surprise. Even expecting it (his wings are obviously super-sensitive), you choke slightly as his cock thrusts in your throat.

He pulls out, and stares down at you. You take him in again and drag your fingers up his back as far as you can reach. He’s prepared this time, grunts and thrusts only a little, fists clenching. You continue this dangerous game, trying to make him lose control, fascinated by his efforts not to hurt you. Maybe you’ll live out the night?

After a minute or so of this (it seems like an eternity), Crowley growls and grabs your wrists and hauls you up. Your nipples just brush his chest with each shallow breath you take and you stare into his feral eyes. He kisses you like a man dying of thirst, drinking you down. You moan into his mouth when his wingtips brush your legs, your butt, your back. He kisses and kisses you as you press your whole self against him, then his hands rest on your shoulders as he begins to turn you, slowly but inexorably. You twist your neck trying to maintain the kiss but your mouths break apart as he faces you towards the bed and nudges you, one knee at a time, into a kneel on the mattress. He shuffles onto the bed behind you, lips brushing your neck as he inhales, as if savouring the aroma of a particularly fine wine or scotch. You shiver uncontrollably as he gently guides you onto all fours, cock brushing the fabric of your underwear, and runs a hand down your back and over your hip. He reaches under and drags his fingers over your vulva, drawing an embarrassing, needy whine from you.

He chuckles darkly. Oh, yesss, I want it too, he says, but I want to be sssure you really want it.

Yes, I want it! My god, you are aching with want, bucking slightly as he strokes your vulva up and down.

Crowley doesn’t answer, merely chuckles again and, in a swift mode, rips your underwear right off. An idle part of your brain wonders what the hell you are going to wear tomorrow but most of your mind is consumed with the sudden feeling of Crowley’s cock at the entrance of your vagina, meeting the tiniest bit of resistance then popping just in.

You almost hyperventilate when he withdraws then pops just back in, teasing your hole with the most furious concentration of sensation as he repeats the action, driving you to clench the blanket with white knuckles to hold your body perfectly still.

Then he begins to edge slightly further in each thrust. You groan with welcome, then gasp as his wingtips curl under to brush your nipples.

Oh my god, oh my god, you say. Crowley grabs your hips and rams in to the hilt.

Not god, he growls, just me. He thrusts again, then again, setting up a rhythm then matching it with a hand that stroke your clitoris. You’re close to seeing stars by this point, rocking back in time to meet each thrust, letting your knees slide further apart as you try to take him in as far as you can. 

Oh go–ohhhh! You’ve never been one to shout a lover’s name turning sex, never felt the need to, but you’re damn close to screaming Crowley’s name just to make him… do something. He’s fucking your brains out and you can’t think between the thrusts, your swollen clitoris and your aching nipples, so you just settle for ohhhhhh!

And then the stars you’ve been seeing explode and you distantly hear Crowley grunt in the most satisfied way as he thrusts once, twice, thrice, then groans with relief and throws one hand out to brace his weight, lowering you to the bed ever so gently. He withdraws and buries his face between your shoulder blades, right where wings would be if you had them. Your stomach has turned to butterflies and the fizzy aftershocks of orgasm still tingle through your body, but the press of his lips to your back send a whole different kind of shock down your spine. You tense, and he shifts to hum sleepily in your ear. The hum chases all the fizziness away and the intoxication of sleep follows.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It might seem as if you have stepped into a dream, but life still goes on, and you must navigate this strange new reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always want to know what happens the next morning.

You wake, a delightful lethargy imbuing your limbs. There is a warm body at your back, and you smile lazily at the arm cast over you. Then your eyes fly wide at the tickle of feathers drifting across your naked leg.

Memory jolts you fully awake and you half turn, staring at the yellow-eyed demon who smiles seductively. Why, good morning, he raises one eyebrow questioningly.

Your lips part in surprise, then curl up in shocked delight. Crowley makes a low noise of anticipation as his eyes flick up and down your form, then kisses you with lazy intensity. You hum with desire, caressing his thighs and arse, digging your fingers up into his feathers.

With a growl he rolls you onto your back and slides a knee between your legs. You wrap them around his waist as he moves into you, carefully and deliberately, with long, slow thrusts that bring that buzzing right back up to your eye level. When you come you throw your head right back and cry out. Crowley bites your collarbone and blankets you with his body and wings. You close your eyes and enjoy the sensation of being pressed, almost smothered, with his heat.

When he moves away you hug yourself and roll to the side, unwilling to relinquish the total relaxation you’re enjoying. You hear a shower start, and your eyes flick open to see a partially open bathroom door. Too blissed out to contemplate moving, you enjoy the glimpses of bare skin when your eyes fall on the digital clock beside the bed.

Oh, shit! I’m going to be late for work!

The shower stops and you’re distracted by the view as Crowley strolls out moments later, dark grey towel wrapped low around his angular hips. His wings have vanished – retreated into tattoos that run the length of his back. You want to trace them with your fingers. You’ve just had a night of mind-blowing sex with a demon, and you’re worried about being late for work? he smirks.

You blush and sit up, drawing your knees to your chest and hugging them, suddenly embarrassed at your nudity. What a stupid thing to say! you think, wondering how to come back from that statement.

Don’t fret, I’ll drive you to work. He rolls his eyes tolerantly and saunters out towards the kitchen. You wait another five seconds before dashing for the bathroom, shutting the door firmly and turning the hot water on. As you hastily scrub, you remember with a sinking feeling you have nothing to wear—you’re clothes got shredded by the demon with whom you had mind-blowing sex. You step out of the shower and snag a hanging towel; maybe you can borrow a shirt and jeans to get home? You’ll be late, but that can’t be helped—you’ll never make it through peak hour London traffic in half an hour.

Stepping out of the bathroom your jaw drops. Laid out neatly on the bed are your clothes, perfectly intact. The only difference is, the entire outfit is now black, with red trim on the skirt and little red devil horns and tail symbol on the collar of the blouse. Cute, you say uncertainly.

Dressed, you venture to the kitchen. Crowley’s sipping an espresso, leaning on the bench next to the fancy looking coffee machine that is in the process of spitting out a small flat white.

Thanks, you say, eyebrows raised, as he hands it to you. He smirks again and shots the remainder of his coffee, then hovers as you sip hastily.

You should really slow down, he purrs, standing so close you can almost feel him vibrate with self-satisfaction. Does he know what he’s doing to you, watching you so intensely? You’re lucky the bench is propping you up because all you can think about is how you’d gladly have your clothes ripped off again right now.

Iron self-control prevails, and you manage not to gravitate into him. He seems to sense the internal battle of wills (mind you, the clenched knuckles on your coffee cup could be a slight giveaway). His smirks shifts into a smile of wry amusement. Better get you to work, then, hadn’t we? He trails the back of his fingers on you cheek and you gulp the remaining coffee, scalding your tongue.

The drive to work is astonishingly fast. The Bentley slips into gaps that weren’t there a moment ago and gets every green light. Crowley hums along to Freddie Mercury and doesn’t seem to be bothered that you’re tongue-tied (alright, the burn does hurt), and before you know it, you’re outside your office building, trying to mumble out a ‘thanks for last night’ to the once again sunglasses-wearing demon who is grinning at your discomfort.

Let’s do dinner sometime, he says. Zira always loves a reason to go out somewhere nice. Like a sunflower you turn to him and beam, allowing him to capture you chin with a gentle hand. His kiss is soft but with a sneaky dart his tongue tastes yours and you jerk as if electrocuted. Have a good day, he grins.

Grinning like an idiot, you get out and watch him drive away. It’s only when the Bentley disappears around the corner you realise your tongue is no longer burnt.

*

The morning at work flies by and, having had nothing but coffee all morning, you duck down to the café at the bottom of your building at buy a sandwich for an early lunch. Sitting in the lunchroom, concentrating on how good food tastes when you’re starving, you don’t hear the conversation going on at the tea station behind you at first. Then Brad’s loud voice catches your attention.

Of course, some girls just pretend to be gay to avoid having a drink with a bloke. Which is just dishonest and rude, if you ask me.

You swivel, temper rising, to see Brad glaring at you. Two other guys from marketing stand with him. Were you by any change referring to Friday, Brad, where you kept harassing me to have a drink even after I very politely said no thanks? You keep your tone mild. Two women from accounts walk in and stop, sensing the atmosphere.

Brad doesn’t see the danger. You were drinking whiskey with that bloke, he snipes. So obviously that wasn’t an issue. I dunno, try be friendly and buy a colleague a drink and she pisses off to some random old queer in the bar, then makes out that she’s gay, but goes and snogs him up against his car!

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Daisy, one of the women from accounts, go to say something with an indignant look on her face, but her friend shushes her. You straighten your shoulders and give Brad a cold smile. Firstly, Brad, I don’t have to have a reason to say no to a drink. You chose to buy one anyway. Secondly, I don’t like sweet wine. When I ran into a friend, I had a scotch with him because I like scotch. Thirdly, my friend is queer, as am I, though it’s not any of your business what his or my sexuality is, and following us around the corner to spy is bloody creepy! What the hell was that about?

There is whispering behind you, but you don’t look away from Brad. One of his marketing mates is surreptitiously texting, alerting the entire office, no doubt. Brad shuffles and frowns, crossing his arms. If you’re queer why were you kissing a bloke?

Holy shit, it he stupid? Fortunately, the other guy from marketing bumps his elbow and mutters, Means she’s bisexual, mate. She bangs girls and guys.

Swallowing your disgust, you fold up the remainder of your sandwich and stand. If you’re quite done harassing me about my personal life, I might go eat at my desk.

The crowd outside the lunchroom disperses quickly but a few people meet your eye and nod. Daisy does a tiny fist pump and a guy from Sales mutters, You tell ‘im. Relieved at the support, you sink in your chair as your phone buzzes. Before you can look at the text you see Fatima from HR marching across the office towards the lunchroom, a determined look on her face. You sigh, not wanting any drama, but then what you read on the text wipes the worry from your heart.

_Dinner Friday? Zira always loves an excuse to go out_

You grin. The office drama is worth it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want to take this relationship to the next level, but exactly how that happens you're not sure. Dinner with the ineffable husbands gives you the chance to find out a bit more about them. Crowley and Aziraphale just love nice things, like dinners and good wine, so what better way to bring a third into their relationship than to date them on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for kudos and comments and PATIENCE! I promise I'll do the next chapter a lot faster.

Friday evening finds you in a cute navy dress with tights and boots, standing outside an upmarket Greek restaurant. In an effort to be independent (okay, maybe a bit contrary), you insisted you would meet Aziraphale and Crowley there, rather than be picked up. You’re a mere human – you can’t possibly compete with the supernatural – but you wanted to make clear that, whatever this ‘thing’ is, you were not their toy.

You hope.

There is also the chance that you’re going to be stood up. You have no idea why you would choose the riskier option of being stood up in public, without the ability to slink back inside and watch Netflix and consume therapeutic ice cream, but you have always been something of a masochist when it comes to your independence.

The fear stays with you as the maître d greets you and enquires if you have a booking.

I’m meeting some friends, you say, two gentlemen, one wears black and probably has sunglasses on. The other is very polite–

Before you can finish your sentence, the maître d perks up and declares, Ah, yes, Mr Fell and Mr Crowley. Right this way.

You trail him through the crowded restaurant and you see them, tucked away at the back on a small round table. In the seconds before they notice you, you smile to see Aziraphale talking animatedly, with Crowley, chin on hand, watching him with an expression of utter captivation.

_Why on earth do they want anything to do with me?_

They are beautiful—a perfect yin and yang. Crowley’s short hair a shock of red against his jacket and pants. Aziraphale is in a cream suit. At a glance someone might think them black and white, but you know there is depth and colour to them both. You see the thin red scarf nestled under Crowley’s collar, the intricate swirls embroidered on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Crowley made sure you wanted to come to him, while Aziraphale seduced you happily with cream. What fate brought these two together in this way? As an adult you’d questioned whether God even existed but now you can’t be sure.

Crowley’s nostrils flare his eyes flick up. A tiny smile forms, then he touches Aziraphale lightly on the sleeve. His husband (partner? boyfriend? You never thought to ask) looks up and stands, delighted. My dear, I’m so glad you came! When Crowley told me you didn’t want to be picked up I was worried we had offended you in some way." He kisses your hand, the epitome of a gentleman from times past. Crowley comes around the table and brushes his lips against your cheek instead, lingering as he inhales your scent. On any other guy you’d find it creepy, but knowing his… peculiarities, your heart beats hard instead. Glancing back at Aziraphale with a blush (it still seems strange to do this in front of him without having had a proper conversation about the dynamic) but then you realise he’s licking his lips ever so slightly… as if he wants to savour the taste of your skin from his kiss.

The maître d pulls out your chair with a flourish and you smile a nervous thanks as you sit. Aziraphale reaches across the table and clasps your hand. We really are so pleased you could join us. His smile is genuine and warming. Crowley lifts the bottle of Shiraz Viogner and fills your glass—his smile is devious and suddenly you want to laugh at the contrast. Both are trying to seduce you in their own ways. It’s the ultimate good cop, bad cop, and you straighten, a renewed burst of confidence imbuing your words.

Alright, you straighten, withdrawing your hand from Aziraphale with a smile and placing it flat on the table, Tell me how this is going to work.

Aziraphale looks perplexed, Whatever do you mean, darling girl?

She means, Crowley drawls, sipping his own wine, she wants to know if she gets to fuck both of us at the same time.

You flush bright red, and Aziraphale admonishes, Crowley! We are in public! He doesn’t correct Crowley, though, and you blush ever harder, glad that your table is not near any others. Aziraphale goes on quietly, taking your hand again, Any involvement with us is purely your own decision, my dear, though of course we would love to both spend time with you in a…a…

Biblical sense, Crowley supplies helpfully.

Yes, that, Aziraphale continues, batting his eyelashes so adorably you want to stroke his cherubic face. How could you say no to this man?

Angel, your brain reminds you. He is an Angel, Crowley is a demon. Facts aside, you know you’ve already fallen for their temptation, come what may. Blushing still, you take a deep breath. I would like to spend time with… both of you… in that way. Crowley grins, and Aziraphale looks pleasantly smug, his eyes twinkling. But I have to know, why? Look at you two together—you clearly adore each other. Am I just a bit of fun? You hope this isn’t the wrong question, that you haven’t ruined the light dynamic that you enjoy so much. It’s your self-sabotage at play, you know—wanting to know the rules instead of just taking the ride.

Aziraphale goes to speak, but Crowley stops him. If this was just a bit of fun, I would have followed you into the toilets at the pub that night and fucked you up against the wall.

Aziraphale looks pained, but confirms, He really would have.

Oh, you say. You take a sip of wine. It’s richness rolls around your tongue while you line up your thoughts.

Don’t get me wrong, Crowley tips his glasses down and winks, The way his eyes rake over you then slide to Aziraphale leave you in no doubt that he is enjoying drawing you in. You’re not a pushover, if that makes you feel better.

It does, and from what you’ve seen Crowley likes the challenge. And hell, (the expression has never been more apt), it sends a thrill through you to flirt with such danger, insane though it is.

Aziraphale covers your hand with his again. We won’t simply drop your acquaintance, if that is what you are worried about as well. We are immortal. It would take longer than your lifetime for us to become bored.

Slightly morbid though his statement is, you respect his honestly. His warmth and sincerity simply melts you, and though a part of your brain is mocking you for turning to mush over his cinnamon and sugar voice, the rest of you just gives him a goofy smile.

Well, then, Crowley raises his glass in a toast, To our new acquaintance. You don’t miss the soft look of triumph Aziraphale flicks him. Crowley’s expression, of course, is harder to read because of the sunglasses but his one-sided smirk shows that he is pleased, but before you have time to dwell on either expression when Aziraphale is stroking your hand.

You really must try the desserts here, darling girl, they are—and I am an authority—heavenly. They will transport you. Remembering the expression on his face after your little dalliance in the backroom of his bookstore, you bite your lip, fighting a smile and a blush.

I’m sure they are, You reply seriously.

The maître d appears with a smiling waitress. Christine will be looking after you this evening. Christine takes the entrée order—you are content to let Aziraphale choose, saving your assertion for things that really matter. Across the course of the evening you sample delicious Greek food while quizzing both Crowley and Aziraphale on how they came to be. The consumption of wine helps your credulity when it comes to discovering some of the finer points of things you had long ago dismissed as religious fairy-tales.

So all that stuff about an immortal soul... You glare suspiciously at them, slightly drunk (though you have definitely been pacing yourself despite Crowley topping up your glass at even opportunity—the last thing you need is to go to hospital for alcohol poisoning). Am I going to hell for sleeping with you? You stab a finger at him, then turn to Aziraphale. Or… or…

Engaging in carnal acts? Crowley inserts cheerfully, definitely drunk and grinning more and more as he plays footsies with you under the table. You shiver as he traces down the outside of your calf, trying to concentrate on your… annoyance? Outrage? Whatever it is, you’re distracted from it by Aziraphale’s bashful look as he tries to mollify you.

No, my dear, I promise you that shall not happen to you, Aziraphale declares. Heaven and Hell have been quite distracted in the last few years, and will likely be so for some time. Besides, reincarnation is gaining popularity; a lot of people opt for another round if no one is there to claim their soul.

You stare, then launch into a barrage of questions from which even Crowley’s foot teasing can’t distract you. He isn’t put out though, merely drags his chair next to yours and traces patterns on the back of your neck, or threads his fingers through yours and massages your hand. You do your best to ignore him as Aziraphale explains how the world almost ended several years ago, but between Crowley and him, as well as some uniquely placed humans, it was… cancelled?

You’re saying the Apocalypse was called off because a young boy who was the Antichrist didn’t want it to happen? Jesus – I mean, bloody hell – I mean, oh, I don’t know. You’re swaying slightly, and realise you’ve been gulping your wine.

Aziraphale looks concerned. Perhaps we’ll take the dessert home. He snaps his fingers and the waitress appears, nodding and presenting the bill, which Aziraphale signs for with a flourish.

_Hang on_, you want to say. Our invitation, our treat, mutters Crowley in your ear as he gently steers you through the busy tables—it’s late, but patrons still crowd in.

You mumble protests as he bundles you into a cab, Aziraphale climbing in the other side, precariously balancing an understated cardboard box. The restaurant’s logo is stamped as an elaborate contrast on the lid. Hope you brought enough to share, angel, Crowley drawls, propping you up as the cab pulls out and negotiates its way through cars and people crowding the popular dining precinct.

Your head lolls onto Aziraphale’s shoulder as the taxi rounds a corner. He puts an arm around your shoulder and kisses your forehead, murmuring, Well, now, that won’t do at all.

A strange fizzing sensation bubbles up through your skin from inside. You lift your head in astonishment—it’s no longer heavy. There’s a slight aftertaste of wine in your mouth—unpleasant, and you rock back in astonishment when Crowley swings around and kisses you, tonguing a mint into your mouth. What the…? you start, but the cab halts and Aziraphale is handing you out of the car and you stare around in perfect sobriety at the warmly lit windows of the bookshop while Crowley hands cash to the driver. He joins you, snaking an arm around your waist as Aziraphale unlocks the door and gestured grandly.

He smiles invitingly.Do come inside, my dear.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is over, and you return with your dates to the bookstore...

It is only the windows of the bookstore that are lit—the rest of the shop lies in darkness but Aziraphale takes your arm and leads you confidently past the shelves with their beautiful tomes into the back room. His absent-minded click brings the electric globes to life and you blush, looking at the couch. Crowley saunters in behind you, shucking his jacket, and says, Drink? Now we’re all stone cold sober again?

Sober. They made you sober. Inside you cackle at having escaped a killer hangover, but outside you simply say, Sure. I might just use the bathroom first, to buy some time to hide your amazement.

Aziraphale smiles, Of course, my dear. You remember where it is. You do, though you don’t remember the ornate tap fittings, polished marble basin and fluffy white towels monogramed A with a pair of angel wings either side.

Upon returning downstairs you halt at the sight of Aziraphale sitting on the couch, Crowley leaning over him with hands braced either side, devouring the angel with a hungry kiss. Blood starts to rush to your face then quickly races south instead. You feel like a voyeur, turned on by the passion of these two. Crowley leaves a lingering kiss then turns to you. Sunglasses are nowhere in sight and his eyes are animalistic. His smile is as seductive as they come. I’ll get that drink, he says, trailing fingers across your collarbone as he passes on his way into the kitchenette.

Aziraphale is sitting still, looking happy and flushed. Please join me, my dear, he says quietly, and like a magnet you are drawn to him. When you go to sit beside him he places gentle hands on your hips and seats you in his lap instead. Guiding your face to his, he places a soft, longing kiss on your lips. Sighing, you lean into him and allow him to kiss open your mouth. His tongue explores slowly, building the want in you as his sweet cinnamon taste permeates every breath you take. One hand of his rests lightly on your cheek, the other is chaste on the small of your back and somehow that is more of a turn on than him pawing at your clothes, seeking your flesh. You wonder what it would take to make him lose control. To see him all ruffled and begging for more. You bet Crowley knows.

As if summoned you hear a clink of glasses on the coffee table and Crowley slides onto the couch behind you. You’re a greedy angel, he says, kissing Aziraphale deeply before pressing his lips to your neck. Aziraphale’s mouth returns to yours and you feel his hand start rubbing Crowley’s leg, brushing against your butt with every motion. Crowley is kissing his way down to the zipper of your dress, hand on your shoulders, slowly kneading the muscles.

Sitting on Aziraphale’s lap you can feel he’s aroused. You know you’re wet and ache for one of them to touch you there. You drag Aziraphale’s hand from your cheek, down your breasts and to your thigh, encouraging him to push up your dress and venture into the growing heat between your legs. At the same time Crowley slowly unzips the back of your dress, kissing down your spine, but rather than push it off your shoulder he stands and drags you up with him just as Aziraphale’s hand nears your groin.

You whine in annoyance but Crowley's grip is firm as he stands behind you, holding your arms, facing you towards Aziraphale. The angel looks hot and bothered now, erection straining under his tailored cream pants, his eyes dark blue as he licks his lips slowly, watching you both.

Now, now, Crowley murmurs, We don’t want to race to the finish line. Why don’t we give our angel a little show? Would you like that? It isn’t clear who he is asking but it’s obvious Aziraphale is ready to watch. Your breasts tingle as you make a soft noise and nod, and Crowley begins to draw your dress off your shoulders.

Slowly, slowly, he inches the fabric down, kissing exposed skin as you tremble in front of Aziraphale’s hot gaze. Bra goes too and Crowley slides his hands over your breasts as the top of your dress gives into gravity and pools precariously on your hips. Massaging slowly, he rubs his thumbs across your nipples and your breath hitches. Mmm, he hums against your neck. She’s beautiful, isn’t she, angel?

Oh yes, Aziraphale breathes. Utterly delectable. His eyes pin you as Crowley slides your dress to the floor, circling to kneel at your feet and diving fingertips into the waistband of your stockings. You balance against his head and shoulder as he divests you of underwear, stockings and boots one foot at a time, then grips your hips firmly and takes you in his mouth.

Ohhhh. Your eyes want to roll back in your head but you cannot tear them from Aziraphale. He is panting, fists clenched in the couch cushions as Crowley sweeps his tongue up and down, around and inside, suckling until you want to scream, then pulling back to kiss your stomach and your thighs. Your grip in his hair tightens, and it’s all you can do not to force him back between your legs to work you over the edge. A small cry from Aziraphale seems to decide him and he plunges mercilessly into you, bracing a hand to rub your clitoris with a dexterous thumb. You cry out and legs collapse, only there is another strong body behind you, catching you as your head lolls back and kissing you with fierce abandon. Aziraphale scoops you up as Crowley stands, licking his thumb with relish, as if to savour every last drop he’d wrung from your body.

Mmm, you were right, angel, she is sweet, he says, stroking his lover’s arm then tugging him up the stairs.

Aziraphale hums in a low tone. Oh, yes, my love. He follows Crowley, carrying you into a small but elegant bedroom, walls shelved with books and an old fashioned four-poster featuring in the centre. Aziraphale places you gently on the pillows and stands back, removing his jacket, waistcoast and shirt methodically. Crowley is already lying beside you, in nothing but black boxers (when did he undress?), head resting on his arm as he drinks in the sight of the angel taking of his clothes. He caresses your stomach as he watches.

I never get tired of this, he comments, seemingly unaffected by the mind-blowing head he gave you just before. Still a little dazed, you look at him in astonishment. A raging boner beneath black satin reconfirms that he’s horny as, well, hell, and he smacks you with an enthusiastic kiss before leaping up to stop Aziraphale before the angel has a chance to remove his sensible white briefs. Don’t spoil all the fun, angel, he orders playfully, embracing his lover from behind and grinding teasingly while Aziraphale groans. Come on, now, angel, you got to watch our little show. Now it’s your turn to star.

You are such a tease, dear boy, Aziraphale declares breathlessly, eyes closing in ecstasy as Crowley reaches around and strokes his cock through the fabric of his underwear.

Crowley grins at you as he reaches beneath Aziraphale’s briefs. His yellow eyes hold the promise of carnality, making you catch your breath yourself and inch a hand across your nipples, desperate for the return of that intense sensation. He kisses Aziraphale’s shoulder, never leaving your gaze, as the angel moans. Oh yes, Crowley says. I like you loud, angel. His tongue swirls out and into Aziraphale’s ear, as he strokes harder and harder. You feel so hot just watching them, watching Aziraphale fall to pieces under Crowley’s ministrations, downy hair of his chest practically quivering, mouth slack with pleasure. You blink and Aziraphale’s underwear is gone, and an engorged penis weeps slick as Crowley pumps faster and faster. Close, angel? Crowley taunts. You hold your breath, bloody close to coming again yourself.

Yes! Oh, yes! Aziraphale cries, then whimpers as Crowley suddenly stops. His dark blue eyes fly open, bereft, and as Crowley nudges him towards to bed, his gaze falls on you. He groans and allows himself to be guided onto the mattress. You can’t help but reach out, wanting to give him the encasement he so clearly desires as Crowley looms behind like the veritable devil on his shoulder. He arranges Aziraphale’s arms around you as the angel slides in.

You moan with relief, then immediately want more. Aziraphale seems to regain some control and keeps the pace slow while Crowley slides to your side and kisses your breast and your neck. The tension builds. Aziraphale kisses his lover and then you, rocking you back and forth steadily. Crowley rolls away for a moment then returns, and you catch a glimpse of glistening fingers as he reaches for Aziraphales arse.

Despite being unable to see what he does, the effect is immediately noticeable as Aziraphale gasps and begins to thrust hard. You welcome the force, meeting him thrust for thrust, wrapping your legs around his back and feeling a warm mouth encase your toes. Crowley sucking hard sends you spinning out of control, and whatever he is doing to Aziraphale seems to give the same response as the angel buries his face in your shoulder and cries out, then falls still.

Crowley chuckles as your legs fall limply to the side. Uh uh, angel, we’re not done yet. He drags Aziraphale hips back and you watch, dazed, as Crowley lines himself up from behind and begins to fuck his lover tenderly. Aziraphale’s face is a dichotomy of agony and ecstasy as he braces eagerly for each slow thrust. You raise yourself onto your elbows to kiss him and he consumes your mouth, making tiny _mmhph_ noises in progressively higher pitches. You lock your lips to his and he chases the kiss down to the mattress, allowing Crowley an even better angle. You feel the demon work into a faster rhythm until he is pounding Aziraphale and the angel groans. Crowley echoes him and the impacts judder to a halt. Aziraphale is bracing himself just above you and continues to do so while Crowley hugs his back, eyes squeezed shut. You’ve never seen anything so beautiful and unearthly—the angel with the beatific smile of utter joy and the demon clinging to him like life itself. Despite the sweat and the smell of sex and the stickiness smeared across your thighs, you feel almost holy.

You suppose you are, in a way, and the feeling increases when the angel and demon arrange themselves either side of you, Aziraphale clicking his fingers and somehow vanishing away the physical evidence of what just took place. You are too contented to even think about moving, and not another word is said.


End file.
